JAY RUSSELL REVIEWS   

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Mr Bad Face by Mark Morris
Cover copy can be an interesting thing.  How does one get across, in the 100 or so words which comfortably fit on the back of a paperback, the essence of a novel, without giving away too much, too little or being blatantly dishonest? (though few publishers have much of a problem with the latter.)  How, in a paragraph or two, do you make a story sound fresh, new and appealing to the reader, yet position the book within the comfortable and *recognizable* confines of genre storytelling?
It ain't as easy as it looks.
MR BAD FACE is a case in point.  The back cover copy concisely lays out the basic sketch of the plot: "Mr Bad Face," a disfigured neighbourhood recluse, dies when a childhood prank goes hideously wrong.  Years later, Mr Bad Face is back, seeking revenge on the families of the now grown-up children who did him wrong.  A précis for a classic horror narrative, enticing enough, if perhaps slightly Stephen King-ish.  But it turns out to be too much information.
Mark Morris is a talented writer, of that there is no doubt.  However, just knowing those most basic plot elements makes MR BAD FACE a bit of a slog to get through.  Morris has a smooth, very readable style -- in some ways he's a classier version of Dean Koontz -- but MR BAD FACE takes too long to get going.  The simple set-up for the action takes ages and pages to be established and despite the quality of the prose, is just too drawn out and leisurely.  Worse, Morris waits until halfway into the book to provide the detailed flashback of the childhood prank gone wrong, but we already know from the back cover exactly what has happened.  The flashback is nicely told -- the man can definitely write -- but lacking any real surprise, it comes too late in the novel to be effective.  A better, if more conventional approach, might have been to use the flashback to start the book, rather than Morris' superfluous prologue explaining how Mr Bad Face came to be disfigured.
The book picks up good momentum in the second half, and one does come to care about the characters.  There is a genuine desire to find out what happens, but the resolution of the mystery -- how and why is Mr Bad Face back from the grave? -- relies on an inexcusable authorial cheat.  The book falls back on raw deception, rather than clever or intricate plotting.  It's a shame, really, because Morris does have such an engaging style, and trimmed by ten or fifteen thousand words, MR BAD FACE would have been more effective.  As it stands, the book annoys as much as it appeals.

Darkness, Take My Hand by Dennis Lehane
What hath Thomas Harris wrought?  This question has likely been asked many times by readers of crime fiction over the course of the decade, but still those serial killers keep on a'coming.  As is the wont of publicists, the name of the Master is invoked on the cover of DARKNESS, TAKE MY HAND, and while Lehane is not in Harris' league, he has written an enormously entertaining, entirely compulsive fun house of a novel.
The Serial Killer sub-genre is very much the adult (more or less) equivalent of the comic book superhero tale: exaggerated, grotesque, a tad puerile, but irresistible all the same.  Lehane plays it to the full, offering not one, not two, but *three* villains, none of whom you'd want to meet in a well-lit cell, much less a dark alley.  He also offers lots of Andrew Vachss style action and characterization -- that's not entirely a good thing -- which intermittently goes a good distance over the top.  This is a seriously violent book, though the graphic qualities and descriptions are entirely integral to the plot.
Our guides through Lehane's sordid vision of Boston are a male and female pair of private eyes who take on a case which quickly encompasses more than they could ever have imagined, including a revisiting of their own brutal pasts.  The first-person narration is  very hardboiled, though not always as witty as it thinks it is, and about as slick as it comes.  "Slick" is sometimes a back-handed compliment, but Lehane knows how to tell a story and make you turn the page.  Not atypically, the plot depends overmuch on coincidence and epiphany which sometimes strain credibility -- the almost parodically melodramatic title really tells it all about the book -- but the whole thing is so much goddamn fun that it's pointless to complain.  Just enjoy.

 Fog Heart by Thomas Tessier
Gollancz
     Though a decidedly nonprolific writer, Thomas Tessier has garnered an enviable reputation within horror circles for both his novels and short stories.  The high esteem in which he is held is likely to rise even further with the publication of FOG HEART, a complex and beautifully written modern ghost story.
     FOG HEART drops us into the lives of two couples, each of whom finds their lives disrupted by ultimately undeniably supernatural occurrences.  Oliver and Carrie try to face up to a series of ghostly visits from Carrie's dead father, while Charlie and Jan seem to be receiving messages from their long-lost child who died as an infant.  Both couples find their way to Oona, who proves herself to be a genuine medium -- not to mention an enigma with more than a few troubles of her own -- and who offers them their only hope of getting to the bottom of the overlapping mysteries.
     The success of FOG HEART lies entirely in the exquisite quality of the prose.  Tessier is neither overly florid nor spare as a writer, but is an exceedingly elegant stylist.  His characters are rich and textured and his dialogue invariably fluid and convincing.  Indeed, purely in terms of language, the author makes hardly a misstep in the book.  Tessier is slightly less assured plotwise -- the pace slows too much in the middle third, and the tone and substance of the climax prove somewhat jarringly Grand Guignol (even if it is good fun) -- but interest never entirely flags.  The set-up and characterizations are so strong and finely executed that the odd narrative lull is easily forgiven.
     Everyone knows that the horror market is considered virtually comatose right now.  This is the kind of book -- with no immediate or easy hook; by an author who has never quite broken through to a big readership -- that could easily have been passed over, so all credit to Gollancz for having the wisdom and will to publish it.  It's only June, but FOG HEART already ranks as one of the best horror novels of 1997.

 The Mammoth Book of Dracula  edited by Stephen Jones
Robinson £6.99
     Published to coincide with the centenary of Bram Stoker's novel, THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF DRACULA is a typically rich and eclectic anthology from pre-eminent genre editor Stephen Jones.  Much more than just another tired collection of vampire stories -- horror's most overworked sub-genre -- the anthology is packed with more than 200,000 words of quality fiction.  MAMMOTH BOOK OF DRACULA contains 31 stories, 25 originals and six largely unfamiliar reprints, one poem, and the first printing in a hundred years of Stoker's "lost" prologue to a theatrical version of DRACULA performed on May 18, 1897 in order to secure copyright.  Add in Jones' own introduction and a foreword by Stoker's great-nephew, and for £6.99 you've got a serious bargain.
     The stories are arranged in a rough chronological order, beginning with "Dracula's Library," Christopher Fowler's amusing supplement to Jonathan Harker's journal, and concluding in the near-future setting of F. Paul Wilson's "The Lord's Work," a brilliant and powerful evocation of the human spirit in a NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD world in which Dracula's vampires have taken control.  This historical construction is Jones' one conceit in the volume -- he bridges the stories with very brief linking sequences -- and while it doesn't entirely work, it is an interesting experiment and makes for good fun.
     The range of styles and moods on display is impressive. Dracula turns up in all manner of guises, from omnipotent to pathetic, demonstrating the adaptability of the character, and perhaps explaining, at least in part, the enduring allure of this powerful icon.  Incredibly for a collection of this size, there are no real turkeys among the stories, but there are quite a few highlights.  Kim Newman's "Coppola's Dracula," a novella set in the author's wonderful ANNO DRACULA alternate history, is an often hilarious, typically reference-dense elaboration of what might-have-been had Francis Coppola filmed DRACULA with the intensity he brought to APOCALYPSE NOW.  "Melancholia," by Roberta Lannes, is an even cheekier, equally funny tale of Dracula in therapy, while Nancy Kilpatrick's "Teaserama" suggests exactly what -- or rather *who* -- it takes to seduce the master of seduction.
     Some of the volume's finest prose is on display in Joel Lane's lovely "Your European Son," Conrad William's "Bloodlines" and Nicholas Royle's "Mbo."  Brian Stableford packs almost a novel's worth of plot into his exciting "Quality Control," while Paul J. McAuley manages to squeeze even more than that into "The Worst Place in the World" which, along with Brian Hodge's "The Last Testament," are the best of the original stories in the book.  Along with that stunning F.Paul Wilson tale, the reprints are topped by a pleasantly pulpy Manley Wade Wellman story and a delightfully Campbellian Ramsey Campbell offering.
    Also included in the volume is work by Michael Marshall Smith, Nancy Holder, Graham Masterton, Peter Crowther and a host of others.  Stephen Jones has shown, yet again, that themed anthologies don't have to be boring and obvious, and that even vampire tales still have some life -- or should that be undeath? -- left in them.  Happy birthday Count!

Freezing by Penelope Evans
Black Swan £6.99
Though there is a crime at it's heart and mystery in its soul, FREEZING is not a category genre novel, and while I haven't checked, I'd be surprised to find it in the "crime" section of a bookstore.  Because it is published under a  "literary" imprint, many fans of crime and dark fiction may never even notice the book.  That would be a shame, because even if it defies genre expectations (and there's certainly nothing wrong with that), FREEZING is a beautifully written, often deeply disturbing work that is well-worth looking for, *wherever* they stock it.
The story of Stewart Park, a distressing young man who works as a morgue photographer, FREEZING details Stewart's obsession with the corpse of a beautiful, unidentified young woman who's been dragged out of the Thames.  Who is she?  How, and why, did she die?  Stewart simply has to know.  For the angelic, frozen features of this dead girl cast a kind of holy light on the horrors of Stewart's own living-death of a life. Socially and physically awkward and utterly pathetic, Stewart nonetheless embarks on a quest to discover the dead girl's identity, with ultimately profound, not to mention dangerous, repercussions.
Evans' real achievement here is in making compelling a story with almost universally unpleasant characters.  It is no small feat to engage the reader with a first-person narration when that narrator is so unlikable a figure.  Stewart's dysfunctional family make the Wests seem like a bundle of laughs, and his world is a lonely and claustrophobic place. Even so, Evans commands readerly interest not so much through strength of story -- in fact, the revelation of the "mystery" is on the crashingly familiar side -- but through sheer quality of prose.  Evans has a gift for the odd and outre -- an almost David Lynch-like capacity, without seeming to write weird-for-weird's-sake.
The early chapters of FREEZING bring to mind Katherine Dunn's amazing GEEK LOVE, though unfortunately Evans does not sustain this mode for the length of the novel.  Evans stumbles slightly in a series of somewhat clumsy sections concerning Stewart's obsession with a computer game.  These bits feel forced, as Evans insists on pushing a metaphor just a little too far.  This is a minor carp, however;  FREEZING is a solid and memorable piece of work.

Black Hornet by James Sallis
No Exit Press £5.99
This short novel, the third by Sallis to detail the exploits of quasi-PI Lew Griffin, is seriously quirky.  Though it features an idiosyncratic style and a disjointed, almost haphazard narrative, it also boasts an engaging and distinctive writerly voice. For every jarring element that annoys and distracts, there's a clever bit which pleases and compels.
The exceedingly stripped-down plot simply concerns a mysterious sniper randomly killing people in 1968 New Orleans. Griffin, a black man in a less than integrated city, takes up the hunt when one of the kills happens to be a friend walking beside him. There is nothing complex or fresh about the story, but BLACK HORNET simply isn't a plot-driven novel; it's a book about character and memory, and readers are likely to respond to the book to the extent that they connect with Sallis' strong evocations and wistful meditations. Even without having read the previous books in the series, Griffin comes off as a well-rendered, well-rounded and appealing lead character. Sallis has a strong ear for dialogue and turns many a nice phrase.
The shallowness of the narrative is occasionally frustrating, however, and those who do not find the first-person voice resonant will not get much pleasure from the book. The story takes place in the past, but the narrator intermittently interjects comments to show that the tale is being remembered at a later date.  Some of this post-hoc commentary is irritating, but it is an unusual stylistic decision and adds an undeniable pathos to events. There is much about BLACK HORNET which feels not fully thought-out (or fleshed out), but there are also enough rewards to make it more than worth a look. Sallis is a writer to watch.

 Knife Edge by Shaun Hutson
Little, Brown £15.99
 One is hard pressed to think of a horror writer with a worse reputation than Shaun Hutson. (Actually I could probably conjure one or two, but why be cruel?)  You never know if such a reputation is deserved, especially when the writer in question sells well, as Hutson apparently does.  Knowing how readily jealousy rears its ugly, green head, and never having read Hutson before -- having neither deliberately avoided nor sought him out -- I tried to approach KNIFE EDGE tabula rasa, as it were.
The least you can say about Hutson is that he is not an incompetent writer. Unfortunately, that's also the most you can say about him.
KNIFE EDGE is a mainstream thriller, set in the course of a single day.  Neville, an ex-para, disgusted at the peace which has broken out in Northern Ireland, threatens to set off a series of bombs in London -- one an hour -- unless he is reunited with the daughter in custody of his ex-wife.  World-weary counter-terrorism expert Doyle (with the obligatory dead wife for whom he still pines) is assigned the job of hunting Neville down and killing him before he can set the bombs off.
The two play cat-and-mouse around London.  A few bombs explode, a bunch of people die.  Dumb cops argue as the clock ticks down toward detonation of the Big One.  Will Doyle get his man in time?
What do you think?
The tired plot feels like something out of any number of straight-to-video or made-for-TV movies.  That is not damning in and of itself, but Hutson has so little feel for character, dialogue, description or nuance, that it's simply impossible to become involved in the suspense.
Everyone and everything in the book is reduced to the crudest and most familiar of cliches.  But worst of all is the writing.
Hutson rarely writes paragraphs of longer than two sentences.  Most paragraphs consist of a single sentence.
As a stylistic device this has its uses.
But page after page it becomes ineffective.
And tiresome.
VERY tiresome.
Hutson has an ear for simile like Barbara Cartland has an eye for fashion: "...his hair flying behind him like incensed reptilian tails..."   What the hell does that mean?  Sadly, even the book's premise -- the plot hinges on the establishment of lasting peace in Northern Ireland -- is already stale.  And the title is pretty well meaningless as well.
It's no fun writing a review like this, no joy to be had in tearing a book apart.  The most depressing thing is that Hutson shows the odd flash of talent, particularly in the construction of one or two action sequences.  But these bits are small recompense, indeed, for the chore of slogging through the rest of the book.
Sometimes reputations are everything they're cracked up to be.

 The Two Bear Mambo  by Joe R. Lansdale
Joe R. Lansdale has always been an eclectic writer, making a name for himself in horror (for my money "Night They Missed the Horror Show" is the best horror short story of the modern era), but dabbling as well in westerns, crime, the odd comic book, and bizarre and compelling combinations of all those categories.  His recent career trajectory into relatively mainstream crime fiction speaks volumes about the woeful state of horror publishing in the US and UK, but one genre's loss is another's gain, for Lansdale just gets better with each new book. And the sumbitch was pretty damn good to start.
THE TWO-BEAR MAMBO is the third Lansdale novel featuring his East Texas odd-couple of Hap Collins and Leonard Pine. Hap's white, dumb and straight, Leonard's black, smart and gay.  If that sounds somehow PC, not to worry: it just don't come more incorrect than this.  Hap and Leonard are rednecks with a keenly defined sense of justice, and they manage to get themselves into heaps of trouble in the violent wilderness that is Texas.  TWO-BEAR MAMBO has the unlikely pair tracking down Hap's ex-lady love, a black lady attorney who has gone missing in Klan country while looking into a jailhouse death. Our heroes fear for the worst; with Lansdale at the wheel, of course they find it.
There's nothing sensational about Lansdale's plotting -- though there's nothing wrong with it -- but like the best fiction in any genre, this is a book which lives in character and voice.  But what characters and woo-doggies what a voice. Lansdale has a wicked sense of humour and an ear for colloquial dialogue which will have you roaring with laughter.  But he also knows what hurts, and TWO-BEAR MAMBO bears the mark of a seasoned horror writer as well as a man who just plain knows people. Occasionally, some of the interchanges between Hap and Leonard feel a tad too arch -- a little too knowing -- but when dialogue is this sharp it's simply churlish to complain.
Lansdale has come a long way with these characters.  Their first appearance, in SAVAGE  SEASON, was an engaging failure, their second -- in MUCHO MOJO -- a neater and more keenly sketched rollick of an adventure.  TWO-BEAR MAMBO is pure pay dirt.  Go.  Read.  Enjoy.

Blood Waters by Chaz Brenchley
The ten stories in BLOOD WATERS offer a largely grim, but often insightful and even tender examination of lives on the edge.  Many Brenchley characters live on the psychological edge, others on the physical border separating the conventional from the marginal, the loved from the loathed.  Although many of these characters exist on the legal/moral fringe as well, the stories are only vaguely genre tales in the expected sense.  No bog-standard crime fiction here; but then, that's a good thing.
All the stories in BLOOD WATERS are concerned far more with character than narrative.  This isn't a thrills and chills collection, though some cold lives indeed are laid bare.  Brenchley has a real knack for expressing desolation and desperation, and at his best brings to mind the likes of Derek Raymond, though no one descends into the old slough of despond quite like the late master.  Brenchley has a fine ear for dialogue, and is able to conjure place and mood with grace and parsimony.  If the prose occasionally overheats, perhaps that just connects him back with genre tradition.
Interestingly, the best stories in the collection, "Scouting for Boys," "Pawn Sacrifice" and "My Cousin's Gratitude," all originally appeared in Maxim Jakubowski anthologies.  "My Cousin's Gratitude," at novella length, is a particularly rich character study, though a bit wobbly plot-wise, but all three stories share a controlled, confident and compelling writerly voice.  The original pieces in the book are weaker, and "Murder at the Red House," a story written to be read serially on radio, simply doesn't work on the page.
It is explained that the tales in BLOOD WATERS all came out of a stint the author did as crimewriter-in-residence at the St. Peter's Riverside Sculpture Project in Sunderland.  I have no idea what that actually means, but somehow believe Brenchley when he describes it as "the strangest job in the known universe."  He also notes in passing that some of the stories may be found carved in stone, steel and concrete at that project.  Again, I'm not sure that any of these words merit being set in stone, but they are more than worthy of print.  BLOOD WATERS is small press publication -- hard to imagine a major publisher taking a chance on such unconventional writing; more's the shame -- so interested readers will likely have to seek it out.  Those who do will be  rewarded for the effort.
[NB BLOOD WATERS can be bought directly from the publishers - see our page on the Flambard Press]